


After the Fight

by Hopetohell



Category: The Cold Light of Day (2012)
Genre: Allusions to Violence, Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood, Blood Kink, Bodily Fluids, Degradation, Fingering, Gags, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut, Spit Kink, improvised gags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28686162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Will is losing control of the situation.
Relationships: Will Shaw/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	After the Fight

And there’s Will again with blood on his teeth; he was spoiling for a fight and he got one, and if he came out on top it’s only because the other guy was dumb enough to let his guard down. 

He has your jaw in one hand and he is still just _burning_ with adrenaline and barely-contained rage; Sy stopped him with a fist to the face like an iron sledge, and he’s probably the only one who could get away with it, if only because afterward he’d dropped his hand and changed the subject, softly and sweetly drawling _c’mon. You want a beer?_

So that’s Sy in the clear. Doesn’t hurt that he’s probably the scariest one here, even scarier than Walker, and that’s saying something. Walker’s much like Will, come to think of it— hard and cold and quick to anger, claiming he doesn’t do vengeance but he’s a fucking liar. But if Walker is a hammer or a hurricane, Sy is a mountain: huge and immovable, all calm and quiet consideration til something sets him off, and then the landslide hits and he will leave nothing behind. So Will doesn’t fuck with Sy. 

But he sure as shit can fuck with _you._

_You get one chance. You want this or not?_ Will’s composure is hanging by a thread, and when he has your assent—garbled through your forced-open jaw, all vowels, but _there—_ he grins that rapacious grin, the one that says _take no prisoners,_ and he doesn’t kiss so much as he bites at your lips, smearing copper from his own split lip, hand on your jaw to force you still for him. And the words come low and vicious, breathed over your skin, cutting through the smeared blood like ice. 

_Whose are you?_ Not fast enough. _Guess you need reminding._ And Will pulls back; he hooks his fingers into your mouth to pull it open. And he _spits._ It lands on your tongue all copper and salt, hot with shame and with a sudden jolt to your cunt, the sort of sharply stinging arousal that’s only halfway due to the hand he’s got gripped over you there, fingers pressing up between your folds _through_ your panties. And Will lets go of your jaw with his other hand, but it’s only so he can tear those panties right off you, so he can stuff them into your mouth and make you taste your own need on the fabric. 

And then. 

_Even like this,_ he hisses. _Even like this you’ll let me. You desperate, filthy little thing. What do you think? If I fuck you now, are you ready for me?_ A smirk, pausing to kiss over the panties that sit spit-dark in your mouth. _I think you want it. Show me._ And he sits in his big chair, still splashed with blood from the fight. He opens his fly and _god_ the fight was good to him; he’s straining, red and veiny, twitching with the need to fuck. He spits again, into his hand, to rub wet and shining over his shaft because _you fucking love it, don’t you? You want it inside you any way you can get it. You want me to make you filthy. Want me to own you. Now, climb on. Show me how much you want it._

He spreads his legs to spread _your_ legs when you climb onto him, to kill your leverage such that when he’s in you to the root he can say _ride it_ and all you can do is make stilted little back-and-forth grinding motions because you can’t go anywhere. It’s perfect because it means he can— _ah that’s it, let me help you, filthy thing, is it just too much?_ — he can— _there you go, c’mon, fuck yourself on me like you mean it—_ he can— _that’s it, that’s it. Good. I know you can’t. I know. You’re not supposed to—_ help; he can grip your waist and lift you; he can fuck hard up into you and feel himself angling for your throat from underneath. 

He can plant his feet and grip you tight and shake you to pieces above him; he’s deep in you, thick, and when he says _it's all for me, isn’t it,_ all you can do is nod, frantically, grunting around the improvised gag; of course it is, that’s all it’s ever been. And maybe you’re not quite over the edge yet but he is; he starts to sweat with the effort of pushing through it, with the difficulty of keeping you pinned on his softening cock. In the end he stills your movement on his lap; he licks his thumb and circles at your clit until you follow him down, the ripple and clench of your cunt making him gasp. 

Will takes the panties from your mouth and secrets them away; perhaps he’ll jerk off into them later. But for now he bends you down to kiss you sweetly and his voice is low and wrecked when he tells you _yeah, yeah. I’m not— not really. But I’m better now. Clearer._

_It’s getting worse._

_It’s always getting worse. But, fuck. What can I do?_ He’s trembling now with the comedown from the fight and the fuck; if you’d thought to climb down off him he changes your mind with the briefest look of betrayal, of imminent loneliness, so you still your hips and bend your head to rest against his chest. You warm him, and you wait, and slowly steadiness returns. 

_Hey. Hey._ Your words are warm against his chest. _For what it’s worth. I’m with you._


End file.
